


Oh But You're Lovely

by fiorediloto



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Music, Nonverbal Communication, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorediloto/pseuds/fiorediloto
Summary: Dick, Nix, a jukebox. In the early days before they learn to read each other's mind, they find a way to communicate that doesn't require talking.
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 24
Kudos: 100
Collections: Loose Lips Sink Ships Prompt Meme





	Oh But You're Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this fic came to me after stumbling on this beautiful paragraph from _Coming Out Under Fire_ by Allan Berube:
>
>> _At Mitchell's tavern in nearby Florence, he wrote to a pen pal, he spotted "the most handsome corporal drinking at the bar" and they both began exchanging "very attentive glances". Watson ordered a beer, stuck a nickel in the juke box and, to express his own interest, he wrote, selected the song "If you only loved me a little more." The corporal checked out the record title, then Watson selected another song, "Why don't you do me right," after which the corporal played a song to express his own intentions--"Heaven for Two."_
> 
>   
> Thanks to [ThrillingDetectiveTales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales) for beta-reading!
> 
> Written for the Loose Lips Sink Ships prompt: _first hookup at OCS_.

_Spring 1942_

The bar where Nixon had dragged him had a jukebox, a neat wooden thing with vibrant colors and chrome details and a thick stack of plates that promised hours and hours of music entertainment.

It hadn’t been used much in the hour or so that Dick had spent in the place, but they had gotten there early and the bar was just about starting to fill up. At some point an Airborne corporal from the neighboring table had stuck a nickel in the machine and the Andrews Sisters had filled the room with some popular song or another. The corporal--who Dick suspected had started drinking very early--had retreated to his table, stabbed his toe in the leg of Dick’s chair, started singing along, and would have undoubtedly gone through the whole damned thing if his marginally less intoxicated buddy hadn’t told him to shut the fuck up.

Other than that, the jukebox had been silent. Now, Dick realized, it was playing again: a soft, longing duet that was almost, but not quite swallowed by the growing chatter. 

Dick sighed and twirled the leftover ice in his glass, throwing an impatient glance to the bar, where a few Army greens stood waiting to be served. This was not his environment. Really, the only reason why he’d agreed to leave the comfort of his bunk at Fort Benning and join the thirsty crowd of officer candidates and paratroopers pouring into town was because Nixon had asked. 

Which was troubling in its own way. _Because Nixon asked_ was an excuse that had started explaining Dick’s actions with increasing frequency over the past month or so. At first Dick hadn’t thought much of it, blinded by the man’s easy charm and the careless way he had of invading Dick’s personal space, setting camp and steadfastly refusing to leave until he’d wrestled Dick out of his ‘misery’. Dick had chalked it up to boredom on Nixon’s part and a harmless indulgence on his own. After all, no man was an island, was he? Nixon was friendly, and good company when he wanted to be.

When he’d finally opened his eyes to the true nature of their relationship, he’d realized to his dismay that it was too late.

He was starting to think that he’d made a mistake, agreeing to come. He’d thought that Nixon wanted to talk. He’d thought he’d made _sure_ of it by clearly remarking, before accepting the other’s invitation, “Long as the place is discreet,”--to which Nixon had answered by donning a softer smile than usual and confirming cheerfully: “You leave it to me.”

And now they were in a loud, messy establishment, with alcohol flowing freely, convective motions of military and civilian types walking in and out of the place, and every corner increasingly packed with servicemen and the occasional WAC on their way to a joyous intoxication. His hope that Nixon intended to discuss anything had been proven wrong by fifty minutes of inconsequential small talk.

Dick rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. This was a waste of time. He’d do better to wrap it up and say goodnight; he might still catch an early bus to Benning, or hitchhike. Nixon would have no trouble finding better drinking company, or perhaps another kind of company alto--

“There you go,” Nixon announced, placing a tinkling glass of iced Coke on the table. “Sorry it took so long. The bartender was busy making eyes at every goddamn butter bar in the room,” he grumbled humorously, pointing behind his back with a thumb. Dick threw a look in that direction, but he couldn’t locate the barmaid Nix was talking about, not that he particularly cared.

“Don’t worry. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sipped at their drinks. Nixon’s glass was a whiskey tumbler, half full. Nixon wet his lips and put it down on the table.

“What’s with the long face?” he asked, touching the tip of his shoe to Dick’s foot. “You don’t like it here, huh?”

Dick shrugged uncomfortably. He didn’t mean to sound disparaging, but he was growing tired. “I’m not the bar type,” he confessed.

“ _Yet_ ,” Nixon quipped, undeterred. “See, you made a mistake there, my friend. You should’ve let me believe that you were a Quaker, after all.”

“I’m not,” Dick objected, frowning. “Why do you care?”

“Oh, I care. I care a great deal, in fact.” Nixon pressed the index finger of his left hand on the table surface. “See, it was one thing to think that you _can’t_ drink because God will smite you and all that crap--”

“Lewis,” Dick warned.

“--but to know that you _can_ drink and you simply _choose_ to abstain,” Nixon continued, putting his right pointer finger down to mirror the left, “now that’s a completely different matter, isn’t it?”

“I’d say it’s irrelevant,” Dick countered.

“Hardly,” Nixon replied. “Unless Mama Winters was bestowed smiting powers by the Almighty. Which I’d have no problem believing, by the way. Look how you were raised.” 

He brought the glass to his mouth, studying Dick’s reaction from behind it. No doubt Edith Winters would have been very offended to have her name dropped into a conversation for the sake of an easy joke, but Dick was already smiling against his best judgement, and shaking his head to hide it.

“Do you have a point?”

“Yes: the drop hollows out the stone, as my headmaster used to say. Give me enough time and we’ll see if we can’t make a roaring drunk out of you yet.”

The promise of a future where they kept hanging together--never mind that it was as silly a notion as Nixon helping him develop a drinking problem--pooled warmly in Dick’s gut. “I wouldn’t put money on that,” he smiled thinly.

“We could, though,” Nixon replied, eyes bright. “Put money on it, that is. But I’ve got a feeling that you--”

“I don’t gamble,” Dick offered, as expected.

Nixon groaned and rolled his eyes theatrically. “Jesus, Dick, I don’t ask for much. One vice. I’ll take anything.”

Dick bit viciously into the inside of his lower lip. “You know the one.”

“Well,” Nixon stalled, taken aback by Dick’s remark. He pulled off a little smile, just a touch veined with uncertainty, which was new. It wasn’t like Nixon to hesitate, not even in the face of an obvious shortcoming, his cocksuredness regularly bordering on cheek even when confronting the cadre. “Do I?”

Now this was miles under the belt. Dick would have accepted Nixon’s offer to forget the whole story, had it been extended, and he could tolerate Nixon’s attempt to chicken out of a talk by ignoring that it had ever happened. But for Lewis to look him in the eye and _pretend_ \--

“Don’t,” Dick warned him, a sudden sharp edge to his voice.

“What?”

“Not fun.”

“I beg to differ,” Nixon replied. “I distinctly remember there being fun. Lots of it, in fact.”

The admission dampened Dick’s irritation somewhat. “So you’re not denying it?”

“Deny what?” Nixon replied candidly, and damn it if the man wasn’t openly teasing him now, with that catlike smile of his and the bright eyes and the whiskey shining wet on his lips.

When Nixon had kissed him in the armory shed, Dick had felt all the pieces of his life fall into place with a dramatic clank. _He_ hadn’t thought for a moment of denying what was happening. He hadn’t had the smallest doubt. He’d kissed back as best as he could, inexperienced but eager, as Nixon pressed him against a tall stack of crates--both of them groping and panting and hard within seconds, and at some point Dick had thought, _So, I’m one of those after all_ , but it hadn’t hurt much.

Soon he’d been fumbling with Nixon’s pants. Nixon’s hand, more adept, was already inches into Dick’s PT shorts; nimble fingers had conquered the slit in his skivvies and drawn his cock out like fresh catch. He’d come with all of three pulls, Dick had, and the flood of shame that had threatened to choke him had washed away upon seeing Nixon follow suit, breath hard in Dick’s ear and come spilling freely over Dick’s hand and onto the ground.

They’d barely had any time to think, after. Dick was still holding Nixon’s arm for balance and trying to parse the warm wave of relief when voices outside had startled them. They’d separated, frantically started making themselves decent, thinking up excuses that they knew wouldn’t hold even upon the most cursory inspection--but when the voices had walked past, no harm done, Nixon had smiled winningly and come back for a second kiss, a simple, unhurried, languid one that had shaken Dick’s foundation much deeper than the first.

When Nixon had pulled back and looked at Dick with that cocky smile of his, the one Dick couldn’t stand on anyone else, something too definite, too real had threatened to spill out. He’d swallowed it back with a mighty effort, but Nixon had seen it. If not the content, at least the intention.

“Hold that thought for me, will you?” Nixon had said, and Dick had sighed with relief. Sometimes, though only sometimes, Nixon showed the uncanny ability to say exactly what Dick needed to hear.

Now, at the bar, Nixon noticed Dick’s angry color and put his left hand on the table, palm turned upwards in a conciliatory gesture. 

“Oh, come on,” he said in a kinder tone, stopping whatever irreparable insult Dick had on the tip of his tongue. “I’m pulling your leg. You’ve got no sense of humor either?”

“None whatsoever,” Dick replied acidly.

“Now that’s a lie.” Nixon touched Dick’s sleeve, idly tracing the first cuff button with the tip of his finger. “Remember the other morning? When the sarge dropped to his knees ruler in hand and said, _Corporal Winters, you’re_ _one inch too short_?”

Dick flared up. “He meant the fold in the--”

“Yeah, yeah. I saw your face.”

Dick had to concede the point. “It was funny, the way he said it.”

“Funny? I thought you’d had a stroke.”

A corner of Nixon’s smile curled up gently. He brushed his lower lip with his thumbnail, the gesture slow and--Dick suspected--studied.

“By the way, that was slander pure and simple,” Nixon continued. “If you want me to set the record straight, just say the word.”

“Please don’t bother,” Dick replied.

“You sure? I feel like I should defend your honor.” Nixon rambled on happily, words flowing out of his mouth as easily as if he were reciting cryptography methods: “You’re the victim of a crass misconception. All discipline manuals concur that measurement at _parade rest_ isn’t enough. An assessment at attention is required before issuing a shot for a deficiency.”

“Please--” Dick started, a chuckle already bubbling in his chest. It was gutter humor of the worst variety, and he shouldn’t have found it funny, but he did.

“It’s all true,” Nixon insisted, wetting his lips with a rather professoral sip of whiskey. “Read the manual.” 

“--shut up, Lewis,” Dick chuckled.

“No, no, I mean it. I’m outraged on your behalf, and I hereby vow to clear your name. Bring in some evidence, a first-hand account of course--”

“Keep it _down_ ,” Dick warned, but he’d already started laughing.

“--perhaps a set of photographs. You know, like wanted posters, front and side, only of your--”

“Shh, shh,” Dick spasmed. “Stop it.”

“--I should reacquaint myself, of course. In the pursuit of justice. They tell me this place has top-notch facilities. We could go now and take a good look at your gorgeous, definitely bigger-than-average--”

“Lewis!” Dick almost shouted, earning himself an annoyed look from the next table.

Nixon leaned back in his chair, looking very pleased with himself. Dick wiped his eyes, coughing away the last of the laughter.

Nixon let him compose himself for a moment. The jukebox was on again; Nixon’s head was turned that way, the corner of his mouth raised in a fraction of a smile. He muttered some of the lyrics under his breath ( _Oh but you’re lovely, with your smile so warm…),_ then caught himself doing it and stopped.

“Dick?”

Dick looked up from his Coke. There was indeed something unbearably warm in the way Nixon was smiling at him.

“Mm?”

“We could, you know. Go.”

“Go where?”

“To the men’s room. Have some fun.”

A whiff of lyrics hit Dick’s ear; the rest of it was lost to the roaring of the blood in his temples.

“What?” Dick exhaled, breathless, even as he felt his stomach twist with a cramp of pure desire. 

Nixon’s smile stretched a little unnaturally--there it was again, the sneering. Dick set his jaw, disappointed.

“I said, we could--”

“I heard you.”

“Well, then?”

“Are you going to tease all night?”

Nixon’s hand on the table closed into a lax fist, but the smile hung on. “Pretty much. Are you going to fall for it all night?”

Dick was tempted to take him at face value, but something in Nixon’s confidence rang cruel, and untrue. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. It hurt like an aching tooth, and for all his self-restraint in any other matter, he’d never been able not to poke at a cavity.

“Besides,” he said, feeling like he was taking a bigger leap than he could afford, “it wouldn’t be safe.”

Nixon bit his lower lip. “Safer than most everywhere.”

“Come on--”

“Take a look around. Half the patrons are raging queens.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Dick confessed. Though if it meant what Dick _thought_ it meant, a few things that hadn’t quite surfaced to Dick’s awareness in the last hour--servicemen sitting with abandon in each other’s lap, an overabundance of campy falsetto piercing at intervals the baritonal rumble of the crowd--would start to make sense.

Nixon was regarding him with something of a polite interest, and Dick had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being assessed--that the other man was trying to discern if Dick was playing dumb or genuinely naïve. He felt the intensity of the other’s stare grow, hold and decline like a brief flame. Nixon looked down for a moment, then pushed his body forward with business-like energy and placed his arms on the table on either side of his glass.

“It means no one cares,” Nixon said, reaching out to take Dick’s hand in both of his. Dick squirmed and looked anxiously left and right, but Nixon seemed to be right: nobody in the bar was interested in two soldiers holding hands. 

“I think I’ve got you figured out, you know,” Nixon murmured.

“You have, haven’t you?” Dick retorted.

“Yes, I have,” Nixon insisted. “You like to be chased. And that’s all right, ’cause I like to chase.”

“Nixon--” 

“It’s ‘Nixon’ now?”

“I’m not a girl,” Dick replied, ignoring the last comment.

“What a happy match,” Nixon smirked. “I don’t care for those.” He wrapped his hands fully around Dick’s palm, stroking the back of Dick’s fingers. “You said discreet. You won’t find a more discreet place this side of Georgia.”

“For talking!” Dick snapped. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

Nixon blinked. “We’ve been talking.”

“We haven’t,” Dick replied, hating the whiny ring he heard in his own voice. “You’ve been making jokes all night, and I’ve--I’ve--”

“You’ve been sitting there, watched me run my mouth and said nothing.” Nixon frowned, any trace of humor gone. “I’ve been throwing hints all night.”

Dick couldn’t help it, he knew that it would make him look like an idiot from some backwater, but the words just escaped his mouth: “Have you?”

Nixon chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck, you’re serious. For God’s sake, I _complimented_ your--” He stopped himself. “Okay. I’ll give it to you plain and clear, Dick. I don’t mind chasing, but don’t lead me on if it’s not gonna happen.”

Dick found that, despite the drink, his mouth had gone completely dry. Nixon hadn’t let go of his hand yet.

“I’m not,” Dick said, with some effort. “I’m not leading you on.”

“All right.” Nixon looked relieved. He gave one last squeeze to Dick’s fingers, then pulled his hands away. “We’ll take it from the top, okay? No more jokes.”

“All right,” Dick said cautiously.

“Shall I grab us another drink? Another Coke for you?”

Dick still had some flat Coke in his glass and was tired of the place, but he didn’t want to put Nixon off, not after what they’d just admitted to each other, so he nodded affirmatively.

“I’ll go,” he offered, pushing himself up on his feet. “What’re you drinking?”

“Glass of Vat, please. Neat. But hey, drinks are on me.”

“No, I’ve got you.”

The line at the counter had grown, and the service indeed seemed painstakingly slow; he was in for a wait. Dick sighed and distracted himself by looking around. There were three servicemen standing around the jukebox with beers in their hand, feeding nickels into the machine. Perhaps because there weren’t enough ladies to put together a decent dance floor, the longing ballads had given way to more lively tunes.

_There’s gonna be a certain party at the station_  
_All dressed up in satin and lace..._

Dick turned around again, keeping an eye on his neighbors to make sure they wouldn’t cut in line. As his turn approached, the music died and the chatter engulfed the place once again.

“Again? Boy, someone loves that song,” someone snorted next to him.

Dick perked his ears. _The Way You Look Tonight_ was playing again. Nixon had smiled so softly the first time, that just thinking about it Dick felt his face warm up a little and his gaze be forcibly drawn back to their table. But Nixon wasn’t there. Dick frowned; his eyes swiped across the room, searching, and finally found him by the jukebox, body resting against the side of the machine, glass of whiskey in hand.

He was standing close to the other servicemen, but he was not talking to them. Instead, Dick found, Nixon was looking straight back at him.

_There is nothing for me but to love you_  
_And the way you look tonight_

If he hadn’t known the man better, Dick would’ve thought that there was something deliberate to the choice of the song. And as for the look--well. It was so open, so frank, so hungry, almost, and unapologetic in broadcasting his interest, that Dick felt his skin prickle at the thought that the whole bar might be acknowledging it too.

He forced himself to look away. Only one guy was left in front of him anymore: he took his wallet out, leaning with an elbow on the counter.

“What can I get you, handsome?” the barman addressed him with an over-friendly smile.

“Uh, glass of Vat 69,” Dick ordered, taken aback by the address. “And a soda water.”

“Whiskey and soda?” the barman asked, reaching out to grab a black bottle on the shelf behind his back.

“No,” Dick replied, raising his voice to make himself heard over the noise. “A whiskey _and_ a soda.”

“Gotcha.” The guy’s hands moved fast under the counter, twisting, uncapping and pouring. “The scotch for you? Or the soda?”

“The soda,” Dick answered, slightly confused by the unexpected small talk.

The barman nodded and scanned Dick appreciatively from his head down to his belt, smile taking on a coquettish shade. “I like myself a sober man.”

Dick opened his mouth, unsure what to reply, but the guy right next to him preceded him.

“Gotta find yourself a new job, then, honey,” he quipped, to which the bartender replied with the theatrical sigh of the daydreaming ingenue.

“That’ll be seventy cents, sweetie,” he told Dick, already looking ahead at the ever-increasing line of thirsty customers.

Dick dug his way out of the small crowd, glasses in hand, and made to walk back to his table, but he realized that their spot had been taken. He scoffed, but he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He headed over to Nixon instead.

As he walked to the jukebox, he saw Nixon turn and feed a coin into the machine. The jukebox whirred and made a soft clunking noise as the vinyl sat on the plate, then the familiar scratching noises at the beginning of the record started.

“You know this one?” Nixon asked, without turning.

Dick didn’t, not from the first notes. He stepped closer and glanced at the jukebox panel from above Nixon’s shoulder. The tag on the pressed button read: “I’M IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE”.

“Yeah,” Dick answered. Nixon turned around; suddenly they were standing very close.

“Thanks,” Nixon said, stealing the whiskey from his hand.

“Sure,” Dick murmured. He moved aside, resting his back against the wall. The song was playing, and Nixon was looking at him intently.

_Funny but when you’re near me_  
_I’m in the mood for love_

Dick looked away first. Nixon sighed and threw a look around himself, assessing the crowd, and tisked. “All queers in goddamn Georgia had a meet-up here tonight,” he murmured.

“Is that what this is?” Dick asked. “A queer bar?”

“Unofficially,” Nixon nodded.

“Is there another way?”

“There’s all sorts of ways,” Nixon replied vaguely.

Dick gulped down a mouthful of soda. A little too fast: it fizzled fiercely and burned the back of his mouth. “I wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of music,” he said, gesturing at the jukebox.

“What can I say? I’m a big softy,” Nixon grinned. When Dick didn’t continue, he pressed: “What’s my kind of music?”

“I don’t know,” Dick admitted. “The dancing kind, maybe.”

“You want to dance?” Nixon asked, touching his elbow.

“What? No,” Dick answered.

“All right,” Nixon said pointedly, taking his hand back. “Don’t look so shocked.”

Dick sighed. “You said no more jokes.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Ah.” Dick shook his head, embarrassed. “I’ve never--Well. I’m no good, anyway.”

“I’m a great dancer,” Nixon replied. “I’ll teach you.”

“We’ll see.”

Towards the end of the song, Nixon cast him another look--sideways this time, as if to check on him--and Dick felt once again at a disadvantage.

Part of him was still shaken by the way Nixon had carelessly admitted his interest. No, not carelessly--that was ungenerous. Easily. _I don’t mind chasing_ , he’d said. Now it struck Dick that their whole relationship could be seen under that lens.

Nixon had been the one to first introduce himself, the one to reach out the first--and second, and third--time over at OCS. The one to drag Dick into that shed, risking his career and reputation on a bet that Dick would welcome the advance and not turn him in to the MPs.

And throughout all of that, Dick had just sat and waited for Nixon’s next move. Waited to be chased. Not exactly the behavior of a leader of men, was it?

“Look, why don’t I take you somewhere else?” Nixon was saying. “Someplace quiet. Maybe--”

“Maybe one more song,” Dick replied, stepping to the front of the jukebox.

“Uh, yeah,” Nixon said. “Sure. You ever use one of these?”

“Once,” Dick nodded. His eyes skimmed the tags, searching for something. He didn’t know half of the songs--he’d never had time to sit and listen to the radio all day--but even just the titles would do.

He entered the coin, pressed the button, and went back to his spot by the wall. He waited. Nixon listened for a moment, and when he couldn’t recognize the song he bent his head to check the title in the jukebox panel.

“It’s a sin to tell a lie?” he read aloud.

Dick had to take a sip to cover his smile when he saw that the message had landed and Nixon was pulling off a grin of his own.

“I see. This is the way it is, huh?”

“It is,” Dick replied, this time looking straight back at Nixon.

Nixon came closer, deep into Dick’s personal space, and leaned his hip against the side of the machine. “All right,” he said softly. Neither moved, and they listened to the rest of the song like that, drinking and looking at each other.

Dick felt like bursting. It was irresponsible to stand this close, even in a place like that, but he couldn’t force himself to move away. Close like that, he could smell Nixon’s drink on his mouth; it was faintly intoxicating.

“You wanna go?” Nixon asked again at the end.

Dick twirled his glass, which still had a couple sips of soda in it.

“One more, then,” Nixon decided. When he stepped back to resume his position, Dick was tempted to go check the title, but Nixon’s eyes nailed him to the spot. He contented himself with listening then, focusing on the lyrics, and when they finally hit him, they hit hard.

_While she’s talking, she’s talking of no one but you_  
_She’s so proud, oh so proud_  
_Of the things you will do_  
_I can see all her love is somewhere_  
_Somewhere in France with you_

“Yeah,” Dick breathed, in response to a question Nixon hadn’t asked.

Nixon brought his glass up to his mouth, downing the remaining whiskey in one gulp, and Dick imitated him with what was left of his soda.

“Gotta pay a visit to the men’s room,” Nixon said, pushing himself off the side of the jukebox. “I’ll see you outside, okay?”

Dick peeled himself off the wall and started heading out. Looking around now, he saw pairs of servicemen, an abundance of soppy smiles and wandering hands; he had to wonder how he’d missed them before. 

He had already opened the door and taken a half-step out, when he realized he couldn’t move further. There it was again, the blood roaring in his temples.

“Hey, buddy,” someone tapped his shoulder impatiently.

“Sorry,” Dick mumbled, shuffling back inside to make way, and the man pulled the door closed behind him. Dick stared at the handle for a moment, then headed in the opposite direction.

Nixon was washing his hands and didn’t notice him until they met eyes in the tiny mirror hanging skewedly on the wall over the sink. He looked mildly curious, but when Dick didn’t go about his business, the look turned into one of utter confusion, which pleased Dick immensely. Two stalls out of three were taken; the third door was ajar. Dick grabbed Nixon by the arm and walked him into the cubicle like he would a reluctant child, then pushed him against the door, overcoming with pure determination the awkwardness of maneuvering two adult bodies in a stall designed for one.

The push seemed to draw all the breath out of Nixon’s lungs. Dick grabbed the lapels of the man’s Army jacket like he meant to shove him against the door, though he did nothing of the kind, just hanged onto them for dear life.

He hadn’t had a plan--more like his legs had moved of their own accord--and uncertainty almost threatened to swallow him whole and leave shame in its wake, but he took in Nixon’s amazed expression and the words just came out easily.

“Are we doing this? For real?” he asked, voice low in his throat, almost a growl.

“God, I hope so,” Nixon breathed, putting a hand on Dick’s arm. His cheeks were a little red already, and Dick realized without touching him that he was hard.

“I mean,” he insisted, refusing to be distracted. “I’m serious. I'm not gonna risk everything for--” he looked around, “-- _this_. If this is all, I’m walking out and--”

“It isn’t,” Nixon said quickly. “It isn’t all.”

Dick hesitated. “You sure?”

“Damn sure.” Nixon raised a hand to Dick’s face in what might have started as a condescending pat, but ended in a calloused, ever-so-gentle caress. Nixon’s thumb touched Dick’s chin briefly, then pulled away. “Step back.”

“Why?” Dick asked.

“Because I wanna suck you off, and you’re in the way.”

The words sent a jolt of anticipation down Dick’s spine, and he could feel his face flare up again, which of course amused Nixon. How could he feel at such a disadvantage in a situation of his own design? He had made this happen. Nixon--experienced, suave, man of the world Lewis Nixon--had hinted and joked and talked to no end; Dick had gone and done it. This was the kind of man he was. He wanted this. He wanted Nixon, and he wanted this.

Instead of obeying, he let go of Nixon’s lapels and crouched down on his heels. His hands were steady, but he felt a minute trembling running through his fingers as he pushed the hem of the jacket away and undid Nixon’s belt, his trousers, and fumbled with his underpants. It all moved so fast, like in a daze. Nixon’s breath came out in a ragged sigh when Dick pulled Nixon’s cock out of his skivvies and held it in his hand.

“Jesus,” Nixon swore reverently, looking down with full-blown amazement painted on his face. “For the record, I _was_ joking when I said let’s go fuck in the toilets.”

“Weren’t you listening? No sense of humor,” Dick replied, feeling more powerful down on his knees than he had in a life of standing tall.

“Jesus,” Nixon repeated, under his breath.

Dick didn’t hesitate. He could already feel his resolution waver, the unfamiliarity of the situation erode his meager confidence, and it wouldn’t do to let it happen, not when Nixon’s eyes looked soft and liquid with admiration like never before. Dick looked at the task in hand, feeling the warm weight of Nixon’s cock in his palm, and bent down to apply his mouth to it.

He had only a vague idea of what to do. A rough outline of the act he’d picked over the years from locker room talk and the occasional dirty magazine, but details were missing. There didn’t seem to be a field manual for how to blow a man’s cock, more’s the pity, or Dick would have made sure to have it committed to memory before embarking on the whole thing.

“Jes--” Nixon started to swear for the third time, but the word got choked in his mouth when Dick pushed his head down Nixon’s shaft as far as it would go. Nixon’s right hand jerked reflexively up to Dick’s ear, brushed his hair, then settled on his shoulder. When Dick pulled back a little, wrapping his lips around the head of Nixon’s cock, Nixon dug a thumb into Dick’s collarbone.

“That,” he breathed as Dick accommodated a little more of the shaft into his mouth to drag the flat of his tongue clumsily against the bottom. “Fuck--Yes.”

Within a few tries, Dick had found a comfortable rhythm and he wasn’t too worried about making a fool of himself, not judging from the way Nixon kept muttering loving obscenities under his breath at each stroke of Dick’s tongue. Both of his hands were holding onto Dick’s shoulders, now, forcefully but not so much as to be a source of discomfort. Now that he wasn’t worried about ruining it for the other man, Dick could read the way his actions affected him in the staccato tightening and releasing of his grip, vaguely reminiscent of an obscene Morse code.

“I’m close,” Nixon panted as a warning, and raised a hand to Dick’s face to twist it away from his groin.

Dick looked up. His only reference for this was second and third-hand stories, a vague understanding that only a certain type of girls allowed _that_ to happen, but how that translated into a man doing the same thing, he didn’t know. He suspected that it might not be all that different, at least looking at the way Nixon was squirming and trying to gently push Dick away.

He pulled his head back, bracing for balance against the door, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Nixon immediately wrapped his hand around his cock, angling his body to the side.

“If you want, I--” Dick started, looking at Nixon stroke himself. “I mean, you can.”

Nixon’s fist halted, locked tight around the head of his cock. “You would--”

“If you want,” Dick added quickly. 

Nixon looked hesitant, but his hips rotated back until he was facing front again, and he moved his hand down his cock almost bashfully, uncovering the gleaming, red tip. Dick swallowed.

“Can’t promise I won’t make a mess out of it,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to. That was fuckin’ great.”

“No, I want to. Come here.”

Dick lay his palm on Nixon’s hip, looking up. He wasn’t feeling especially powerful now, more like an expectant pupil, but Nixon ran his free hand along the side of Dick’s face and guided him back in with the same urgent gentleness he’d used to push him away not a minute earlier. It all clicked again, the taste and the smell and the motion, already familiar in a way Dick knew he’d never be able to forget. He breathed in and set to resume where he’d left off, Nixon’s half-choked pleas now pouring unashamedly over his head as if Dick had released some secret knot that had been holding him back.

“Oh God, that’s good, that’s--Yes, just like that, just like that, just--Christ in Heaven, aren’t you fuckin’ good at--Oh, _oh_ \--”

In the end it was strange, not exactly unpleasant but uncomfortable, but not for very long, and not nearly as messy as Dick had feared. Afterwards he looked down at himself, wiped his chin and was relieved to find he’d got none of it on his uniform.

“Goddamnit,” Nixon whispered, in a dreamy voice that made Dick jerk his head up with a flush of ridiculous pride. Surely there were more uplifting things to be proud of in life, but he couldn’t think of any right now.

“Did you like it?” he asked, unnecessarily.

“No. I’d like a refund,” Nixon replied, the temporary daze already dispelled in favor of a return to the characteristic smugness. He ruined it, though, by running his hands possessively over Dick’s shoulders and resting them on Dick’s arms as if he planned to pull him up into a hug.

“I’m sor--” Dick started, intending to make a joke of his own, but Nixon didn’t let him finish, perhaps afraid that Dick would actually try to apologize. Nixon shushed him and maneuvered him to stand up halfway and take a half-step backward, making him fall on his ass onto the closed toilet.

Oh but he looked beautiful now, Nix did, tall and brazen and red-faced and unkempt, his once carefully pomaded hair having given up under some angry finger-combing. Dick had never before in his life looked at a man and thought that he was beautiful, but clearly this was a night of firsts.

“Nix,” Dick murmured fondly, resting his hands behind his back, on the edge of the toilet lid.

“Hm. I like it,” Nixon said, crouching down between Dick’s legs and grabbing ahold of Dick’s belt.

“I’d figured that out,” Dick smiled, watching Nixon take his cock out with curt, economical movements, any fumbling trimmed down by what had doubtlessly been years of practice.

“What? Not this.” Nixon rolled his eyes. “I mean sure, this too. But--”

“What, then?” Dick asked, confused.

“ _Nix_. I like it. You can call me that.”

“What about _Lew_? I like Lew,” Dick replied.

“You _do_ like Lew, don’t you,” Nixon agreed, licking his lips with an impish smile.

“I do,” Dick confirmed, feeling impermeable to Nixon’s smugness after having seen him in the throes of what, at least from where he was standing, had looked like a rather glorious orgasm.

Nixon stroked Dick’s stiff, almost painful hard-on until a mellow sigh was drawn out of Dick’s lips. 

“Well,” he murmured. “Well,” he repeated, finding his footing. “Hold that thought for me, will you?”

**Author's Note:**

> The songs quoted in the fic are (in order of appearance):
> 
>  _The Way You Look Tonight_ , Fred Astaire  
>  _Chattanooga Choo Choo_ , The Andrews Sisters  
>  _I'm in the Mood for Love_ , Vera Lynn  
>  _It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie_ , Billy Mayhew  
>  _Somewhere in France with You_ , Al Bowlly


End file.
